


What's the Story? Morning Glory

by atholbrose



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drinking, EmiMike, Emil is a ray of sunshine, Falling In Love, First Dates, Fluff, M/M, MichEmil, Michele Is Oblivious, Pining, Slow Burn, michele is a drama queen, milasara on the side, so many oasis song references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atholbrose/pseuds/atholbrose
Summary: Michele Crispino's plan was simple: interview philanthropic daredevil Emil Nekola, impress editor-in-chief with article, get offered his dream column. Waking up hungover in a hotel room with a very naked Emil? Not part of the plan. And steadily developing feelings for him? Definitely not part of the plan.





	1. Morning Glory

Michele opens his eyes when he feels the rays of sunshine warming his face. He covers his face with one hand and rolls on his side. His mouth feels drier than a desert and there’s an awful lingering taste that he can’t quite idenfity. He slowly opens his eyes again. Everything is hazy. As he slowly lifts his head to spot where he left his watch, a familiar splitting headache and nausea combo hits him. Shit. He’s hungover.

Michele shuts his eyes and groans. The morning is going to be hell. And the worst part is he can’t even remember what happened last night. He opens his eyes again, trying to adjust to the painful brightness. Instead of the familiar furniture from his flat he notices the unmistakable layout of a hotel room.

“What the hell?” he mutters to himself.

Why is he in a hotel room? The last thing he remembers is going to a bar after a press conference to…Wait, why are there clothes on the floor? Clothes that are _definitely not his_? As if on cue, he hears the sound of a shower being turned on. Even with his brain only half-functioning Michele has an epiphany.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers, panic building up in the pit of his stomach.

He had a one-night stand. A _drunk_ one-night stand. Why?! How? And more importantly _who_ did he have it _with_?

“Fuck!”

Michele flings into a sitting position. And immediately regrets it. Everything is spinning, and he feels dangerously close to throwing up. He closes his eyes and grips the nightstand in an attempt to steady himself. He knows he has to get out of the room and somehow make it back home, but a quick escape is not an option in his current state. He takes deep breaths, trying to keep everything down. He opens his eyes and spots a bottle of water on the table across from the bed. Exactly what his poor dehydrated body needs.

Michele pulls the duvet away and notices he’s in his boxers. There’s a sudden glimmer of hope. Does this mean he didn’t end up sleeping with a random person? Did he do it and then decide to put his boxers back on? Did he do stuff that didn’t require his boxers to come off? Michele decides not to venture in the realm of sex scenarios while hungover. Instead he slowly gets off the bed and wobbles to fetch the water bottle, muttering a string of curses in Italian with every step.

He downs the water in a few big gulps and feels grateful that his stomach isn’t rejecting it. But before he can celebrate this small victory Michele hears the shower stop. Shit, he has to get out. He looks around the room for his clothes and belongings. He sees his phone and wallet in different corners and goes to pick them up. His headache is killing him but he tries his best to ignore it. He reaches under the bed for his trousers. He’s feeling optimistic, he can surely get out of the situation with his dignity intact.

But the bathroom door suddenly opens and Michele’s optimism vanishes as he sees a man walk out. A very _naked_ man. He’s towelling his light brown hair dry, and there’s a surprised look on his face when he notices Michele.

“Oh, hey!” he greets cheerfully. “I thought you were still sleeping.”

Michele is frozen on the spot. His hungover brain can’t form a coherent reply, and the fact that he’s staring at this guy’s dick is not helping his situation.

“Oh sorry! It’s a bad habit, usually I’m by myself in hotel rooms,” the stranger says, wrapping the towel around his waist.

Michele snaps out of it and quickly tilts his head up to look him in the eye. Blue eyes, a beard, and an amused smile. Well damn, he’s attractive. And familiar… Even with a splitting headache Michele still recognises him.

“You’re Emil Nekola,” he says, and that somehow triggers a wave of memories from the night before.

Michele was supposed to interview him after his press conference. It was supposed to be the story that would get him his boss’ approval so he could move on to a better column. They ended up in a bar. There was alcohol, darts, some bets, and then everything became a blur. He can’t recall much, but he does remember Emil’s mouth on his, the scent of his aftershave, the ghost of his fingertips on his neck …

“…seemed pretty drunk last night.”

Michele zones back in and realises Emil had been talking to him. He seems more concerned now, tentatively taking a few steps towards him.

“Mickey, are you alright?”

Michele nearly gasps at the sound of his nickname. ‘Mickey’ was reserved only for a handful of people. Why is Emil using it? They’re strangers, this is not okay. His shock is quickly replaced by irritation.

“It’s _Michele_ ,” he huffs as he pulls up his trousers. “And I’m _fine_!”

Emil seems taken aback by the sudden hostility. However, his expression is still soft. Michele can’t bear to look at him, can’t risk bringing back any more memory snippets from last night. He needs to get out and pretend nothing ever happened.

“Look, about last night…” Emil begins, but Michele shakes his head vigorously and goes to the other side of the room to pick up his crumpled shirt.

“Shut up, I don’t want to hear it!”

His headache is still thumping, his stomach feels like a void, and he just wants to get out. Emil doesn’t try to make small talk anymore, instead his gaze just follows Michele scrambling around the room. Michele realises how vulnerable Emil looks, standing before him in just a towel. But he doesn’t want to see his puppy dog eyes, he wants the whole situation to go away.

“Michele, can we at least talk about-?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Michele interrupts him as he quickly buttons up his shirt.

He gives up after half of the buttons are done, checks that he put his wallet and phone in the pockets of his trousers, and makes a beeline for the door. But just as he touches the door handle, something compels him to stop. He takes a deep breath and turns around to face Emil.

“Last night did we…?” Michele swallows hard and tries to get the words out. He can’t bring himself to ask. He’s nervous about the answer, nervous about getting his fears confirmed. It was supposed to be special, not an alcohol-fuelled mistake with the wrong guy.

Emil looks at him with his big blue eyes, trying to understand what he means. His brow furrows, then it finally clicks.

“Oh!” Emil exclaims. “No, we…I mean, we got here and things were pretty heated, but you were very drunk. Like _very_ drunk. So I just made sure you got into bed.”

“So we didn’t…?”

“You really don’t remember, do you?” Emil chuckles. “We slept next to each other, but didn’t sleep _with_ each other.”

Relief washes over Michele like a wave. There’s even a hint of a smile on his face, but he makes an effort to supress it. Now’s not the time.

“Right,” he says curtly, feeling calmer already. “Well I uh…I’ll go now. I’m sorry for…” He waves his hand in a vague gesture. “Everything.”

Emil laughs, and Michele stubbornly refuses to acknowledge what a beautiful and pure sound it is. He also refuses to let his gaze linger on Emil’s sculpted abs.

“I wouldn’t consider it something that needs an apology,” Emil says. “You’re great company.”

Michele can’t help smiling this time. He’s standing with a hand pressed on the door handle, but his body is turned towards Emil. His brain is yelling that he should leave right now, but at the same time he feels…okay being there? Emil notices his hesitation and offers a warm smile.

“Hey, wanna go get breakfast? I know this great pancake place across the street,” he suggests.

Michele’s dumb smile falters. He’s brought back to reality. He can’t do this, he can’t stay. The urgency to leave comes back in full force, and Michele opens the door.

“I have to go,” he says, harsher than intended. He sees Emil’s smile fall, and he clears his throat. “Have a nice…life, I guess?”

Michele closes the door behind him and lets out a breath he didn’t realised he was holding. He tells himself everything’s fine, he can go home now and cure his hangover and relax for the rest of the weekend. But as he walks down the hallway he becomes aware of the texture of the carpet beneath him. He looks down at his bare feet. Goddammit, he forgot his shoes in Emil’s room, and the awkwardness of going back would be too much to handle. Michele grits his teeth and straightens his posture. He’ll have to endure the most embarrassing walk of shame ever, but at least he’ll summon the last shred of dignity and pride he has to get through it.

His one consolation is that he won’t cross paths with Emil ever again. What Michele forgets is that he’s terrible at making predictions. That’s why they fired him from his horoscope writing job…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for posting my first multichapter Emimike fic! I sometimes spend months writing first chapters, but this one basically wrote itself. So I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Oh, and I hope you like Oasis, because this story will have song references galore (hint: check chapter titles). Feedback is very welcomed, thanks for reading!
> 
> Stay tuned for Emil's inevitable reappearance in Mickey's life, the struggles of journalist!Michele, and Mila being great


	2. Hello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got weirdly anxious about posting this chapter. Hope you like it!

Michele takes a sip from his coffee and opens his word processor. Fifteen words written in the past hour, and inspiration is nowhere in sight.

He looks over his laptop to scan the open-plan office and see what everyone else is doing. It’s a slow morning, with almost everyone either gossiping over coffee or checking news sites and social media accounts. Only a couple of people are furiously tapping on their keyboards while downing coffee, but Michele doesn’t envy them; he recognises the sight of an approaching deadline.

“Morning, Mickey!” 

Michele jumps and nearly drops his coffee on his lap.

“For God’s sake, Mila! You nearly caused a workplace accident,” he grumpily says, placing his cup on the desk at a strategic distance from his laptop.

The redhead laughs and lightly pushes Michele’s stack of papers away so she can sit on his desk. Michele grabs the cup before disaster strikes. Mila is the only co-worker he won’t fully snap at, regardless of what she does. And that’s because a) she got him his current job writing for _Iris_ , and b) she’s in a serious relationship with his twin sister Sara, which kind of makes her his unofficial sister-in-law. So no matter what annoying things Mila might do, gratitude and fear of angering Sara stop Michele from flying off the handle.

“Oh hush, nothing happened,” Mila comments. “And I didn’t spill any coffee on your laptop this time.”

“There aren’t any medals for behaving like a responsible adult, Mila,” Michele remarks.

“Well there should be, it would make adulthood more bearable. Ooh, or even better: badges! Like girl-scout ones, but for everyday boring adult activities.”

“Maybe you should pitch the idea,” Michele says, sipping his coffee.

“Ugh, there’s no time!” Mila exclaims, dramatically leaning back on Michele’s desk. He tsks annoyed. “I have an article to finish today and another two to plan. Boss needs an online exclusive.”

“Can you do that on your own desk?”

“Yours is bigger.”

“They’re the same size, but yours is full of crap,” Michele retorts before downing his drink. He’d need another shot of espresso to deal with Mila so early in the morning.

“Fiine, I’ll get out of your hair,” Mila admits defeat, getting off the desk. “You have an article to write anyway, right?”

“Yes,” Michele mutters.

An article that seems to be going nowhere.

 

Hours later, Michele is close to giving up. His memory had betrayed him. He can’t remember anything from his post-press conference interview, yet the image of Emil’s naked body was somehow stapled to his brain. Every line, every muscle, and although Michele would rather die than admit it, even his-

“Dick!” The new intern basically yells. Noticing all eyes on her, she blushes and clutches her phone to her chest. “Uhm, someone just cancelled an interview for the main spread. He was…being a dick about it.”

There are a few chuckles and amused head shakes in the office, and Michele takes the opportunity to detach himself from his overthinking and focus on the article.

But writing articles is impossible without his notes. Over the weekend, when he was recovering from his hangover and terrible life choices, he realised that his precious Moleskine notebook was missing. He can’t pinpoint the time in the night when he lost it, so retracing his steps is out of the question. He wants to slam his head on the keyboard. Why is he such an idiot?

Michele glances at Mila’s desk behind him. She’s drinking her second coffee of the day while typing away at her laptop. She looks totally focused on writing and Michele envies her productivity. He turns to his own screen, where a lonely paragraph sits at the top of an otherwise blank page. He sighs. Maybe another cup of coffee will help.

He looks up from the screen and sees someone walking from the other end of the open-plan office. Odd, deliveries don’t usually happen today. And his brain must still be scrambled from the weekend because he swears that person looks like…No. It can’t be. _Fuck_ no.

Michele recognises the messy hair, the beard, the wide grin, the athletic frame, everything. Nooo, this is a nightmare. He never woke up this morning, this is a dream turned sour, there’s no other explanation. _Emil cannot be here at his workplace!_

Michele tries to duck and hide behind his laptop, but the damn screen isn’t big enough to conceal him. Why is this happening to him? Did he really piss off God that badly? He wasn’t supposed to see Emil ever again, isn’t that the whole purpose of a one-night stand?

“Hello?” Emil tentatively asks.

Michele takes a deep breath. He can do this. He’ll just tell him to leave. Easy. He straightens his back and meets Emil’s gaze with a hard stare.

“What are you doing here?” Michele asks, trying to keep his voice low. The last thing he wants is people gossiping about this.

But Emil doesn’t seem to pick up on the unfriendly greeting. Damn Emil and his cheerfulness! Michele bets he’s a morning person as well. Damn his genuine smiles that reach his blue eyes, and his friendly manner, and his beautiful eyes, and… _Focus on what he’s saying, Michele!_

“You left these behind on Saturday morning,” Emil says as he hands Michele a large brown paper bag. Good, maybe now people will think he’s just the delivery guy bringing him lunch. “And I figured you’d like to have them back.”

Michele hesitates for a moment, then grabs the bag. He opens it to see his forgotten shoes, and _his notebook_! His notebook is here! His article is saved! This is such a wonderful day, he’s so happy he could kiss Emil! Wait _what?_ No, no, definitely not, he’d never want to kiss Emil, what _the hell_ is he thinking?

Michele clears his throat and prays his face isn’t flushed. He looks down at the paper bag and doesn’t know what to say. This is by far the nicest thing a practical stranger has done for him. Well, except him and Emil spent a night together, so they weren’t technically strangers? Was this post-hook-up etiquette? Even if they didn’t end up having sex?

He feels Emil’s eyes on him, probably waiting for a reaction. Michele looks up. Emil’s wearing a light blue hoodie and jeans today, which looks nice in a ‘teenage boy who can’t dress himself’ kind of way.

“I uh…Thank you,” Michele says dryly. “For bringing me these.”

Emil grins, clearly proud of himself, and puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “No problem! I’m happy you’re happy,” he says as he shifts his weight from one leg to another.

“How did you find me though?” Michele asks as he places the bag under his desk.

Oh God, what if he’s a stalker? Can charitable people be stalkers?

“I remembered you write for _Iris_ ,” Emil replies.

Michele tilts his head in confusion.

“You introduced yourself at the press conference,” Emil adds.

“Oh right.”

Well thankfully he’s not a stalker. Michele folds his arms across his chest. He feels…nervous. And his palms are sweaty. Can Emil please leave now?

“It’s a nice notebook by the way,” Emil says. “I bought my dad a similar one for Father’s Day last year. He always comes up with design ideas and complains he has nowhere to jot them down. He’s really into woodwork. I mean you should see the stuff he makes!”

Michele nods once out of politeness, and wonders why this guy is telling him about his dad’s hobbies instead of leaving. Doesn’t he have to swim with sharks or something?

“That’s great,” Michele interjects before Emil goes overboard with his storytelling. “Listen, I need to get back to work. Thank you for bringing me my things, especially my notebook. I-” Michele stops mid-sentence, panic hitting him. “Wait, did you read it?”

Michelle sometimes gets bored during press conferences and turns to writing random thoughts down. Sara calls them ‘bitchy brain dumps’, a name Michele _never_ approved of. But basically whenever he stops paying attention to what’s being said he’ll lay a stream of consciousness on paper, usually with blunt comments. Who knows what he wrote during that press conference? What if he made some snarky notes about Emil? Emil can’t know!

“What, the notebook? Of course not, that would be an invasion of privacy,” Emil replies. He seems pretty surprised that Michele would even ask him that in the first place.

Michele feels relieved. He lets go of the edge of his desk, not realising he’d gripped it in the first place. He’s lucky Emil is a decent human being.

“Okay so you did your good deed for the day. Is there anything else you want?” Michele abruptly asks.

He hears Mila facepalm herself behind him. _Of course_ she’s eavesdropping. Fine, maybe his question came out too hostile. But Emil nevertheless smiles and scratches the back of his head.

“Well, to be honest, I’d like to have breakfast with you,” he says. “We never got the chance to go on Saturday morning.”

Michele doesn’t know what to say. His first impulse is to refuse, say goodbye, and get back to writing. Except this man brought him back his shoes and notebook. The least he can do is buy him breakfast. But his stomach does a weird somersault when he thinks of going out with Emil, so surely that’s not a good sign. He can’t go out with him.

“But it’s nearly noon,” Michele says. “We can’t have breakfast at this time.”

He hears Mila’s head drop on her desk with a thud. There’s a discrete exasperated groan associated with the action.

Emil laughs. Did he say anything funny? It wasn’t meant to be funny.

“Well, I’m not suggesting _now_ ,” Emil adds, sitting on the corner of Michele’s desk. Mila sits on his desk all the time, but it’s weird when someone else does it. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“I have work,” Michele replies dryly. “Also, please don’t sit on my desk.”

“Oh sorry!” Emil basically jumps off it, and even takes a step back away from the desk for good measure. Good.

Michele wants to mention all the other days when he can’t make it, but Mila pipes up from her desk.

 “You’re working from home tomorrow, Mickey! So you’re free all day.”

Michele turns around to glare at Mila, who has a shit-eating grin plastered across her face. Don’t snap, remember the gratitude and fear of angering Sara. _Gratitude and fear of angering Sara…_

“Right,” he mutters. “Forgot about that.”

He focuses on Emil again, who’s smiling widely after Mila’s bit of information. He could just say no, but then he would have to deal with making the guy sad. And Emil _does_ seem like a nice guy, bringing back his belongings. Ah screw it, why not?

“Fine, let’s go for breakfast tomorrow,” Michele agrees.

“Awesome!” Emil exclaims, not even trying to conceal his excitement.

He grabs a pen and the stack of post-it notes from Michele’s desk and scribbles something. His tongue pokes out slightly as he’s writing. It’s kind of adorable? No, it’s silly and childish, what is he, twelve? Michele glances at Mila again, who’s smiling and texting someone. Probably Sara, as she always gets updates about his life via Mila.

“Here you go,” Emil says as he hands Michele a pink post-it note. “This is the address of the pancake place, and I’ve also added my number in case you get lost or something.”

Michele nods and takes it. Should he give Emil his number too? Is there a certain etiquette he should be following for breakfast outings?

“Uhh, thanks,” he mumbles.

“Is ten okay?”

“Sure,” Michele replies, slightly surprised. “Weird, people normally suggest an earlier time.”

He then realises he was thinking out loud. Emil chuckles in response.

“Yeah, I’d normally go for eight or earlier, but you’re not a morning person.”

Michele stares at him. Is it really that obvious?

“How do you know that?”

“You told me,” Emil shrugs. “You know, on Friday night?”

“Ah, of course. I remember.”

He doesn’t. Damn his drunk blackout. It’s not fair to be the one who doesn’t remember what happened that night, especially when Emil seems to have a crystal clear picture of all the events.

“So it’s a date?” Emil asks, bright smile ever-present.

“Date? Who said anything about a date? Don’t be an idiot, we’re just going for breakfast,” Michele quickly adds.

“Alright,” Emil replies chuckling. “See you tomorrow then, Mick- Michele!” He moves a bit to the right to look behind Michele and wave at Mila. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name…?”

“It’s Mila!” She exclaims, swivelling in her chair. “Nice to meet you, Emil! You’ll have to be patient with Mickey, he has an odd way of showing emotions.”

“I _do not_!” Michele protests, shooting Mila another death glare. She just sticks her tongue out in response.

“Nice to meet you too, Mila!” Emil replies. “Hopefully I’ll see you around soon!”

“Drop by anytime,” Mila winks.

Michele can’t believe this. They meet for two minutes and they’re already best friends. And what if Emil takes her offer seriously and decides to drop by unannounced again? He’ll have to have a discussion with him, boundaries need to be established.

“ _Goodbye_ , Emil,” Michele says, hoping he’ll encourage Emil to leave faster.

Emil cheerfully gives them both a wave and walks away. Michele plops back into his chair and watches him leave. He doesn’t even notice Mila gliding her chair next to his.

“Mhm, I’d stare at that ass too, Mickey,” she whispers in his ear, and Michele nearly falls off his chair.

“Jesus Christ, Mila!” he exclaims. He glares at the co-workers who look up to see what’s going on, then turns to Mila. “I was _not_ staring at his ass!” he adds on a hushed tone.

He knows it’s a lie, but he’ll deal with it later. Or never. Never sounds better.

 

After Mila stops her teasing and returns to writing her articles, Michele takes the paper bag from under his desk and fishes out his notebook. Small, black with a violet stripe across, bought from his first paycheck. It’s what he used for note-taking ever since he started writing for _Iris_ , and it gained quite the sentimental value.

He opens the notebook, hoping his notes for the interview can make up for his drunk daze. He finds the pages filled during the press conference and they’re perfect! Neat notes cover all the major points of discussion, and there are quotes by Emil that can fit nicely in an article. Michele smiles smugly, proud of his talents as a reporter.

But once he flips those few pages his smile falls. Everything’s a mess. His handwriting gets progressively worse, and his sentences aren’t even within the notebook’s ruling anymore. The ink is even dissolved in a corner because of a wet spot which Michele assumes is beer. And he doesn’t know what he finds more appalling: the fact that he got too drunk to properly write, or that he drank _beer_.

He squints at his drunk notes in an attempt to decipher them. On the first few pages of notes taken in the bar he was still trying to write down objective facts. In a disastrous mix between English and Italian, but still. There was a list of some of Emil’s stunts for charity, a few figures for how much money he raised, and even a top 5 of his favourite sponsors. Except inebriated Michele could apparently only count to 4.

As he turns the pages, Michele sees his journalistic integrity progressively go down the drain. Facts got replaced by subjective comments. _Worrying_ comments. Mainly about how Emil’s smile could light up the whole city, and how his laugh was cute, and how…Wait, _what_ did he write about Emil’s butt? And why was there a separate chunk of text in Italian messily scribbled and circled?

He squints again trying to find out what context he could have possibly deemed appropriate for talking about bending over and…Oh. Oooh. Oh no. Oh _fucking_ no. Michele’s eyes widen as he sinks down into his chair. He snaps the notebook shut and seriously considers washing his eyes with bleach. When did he become fucking E.L. James?!

 

Michele watches his notebook burn in the parking lot. It’s not the best way he’s ever spent his lunch break, but it had to be done. A shame as well, he really liked that notebook. But the things written in there…No, no way was he going to think about that ever again. He tightens his grip on the large water bottle he’s carrying. He’s not dumb enough to start a fire in a public place without a way of extinguishing it.

He stares at the flames and sighs. Everything has been going to shit ever since he got drunk with Emil. He’s too done with the world to care when Mila makes an appearance in the parking lot. Casually walking towards him with a Frappuccino in one hand and her sunglasses in the other.

“Y’know, when Sara and I first started dating she told me you were weird. And I was curious just _how_ weird, so it’s nice to get an answer,” Mila says before slurping her iced beverage.

“I’m not weird!” Michele protests.

Mila raises an eyebrow and points at the small fire. “You’re burning your notebook behind our office building in broad daylight.”

Michele crosses his arms and huffs. “Okay fine, that’s not normal.”

“How come you’re not even the tiniest bit worried of being accused of arson? Anybody could see you.”

“It’s lunch break, Mila. Nobody will waste it checking out the parking spots.”

Mila nods in acknowledgement. “Clever boy,” she murmurs as she throws her plastic cup into the nearby bin. “But what did the poor notebook do to upset you?”

Michele doesn’t reply, mumbling indistinctively instead. He knows he can trust Mila, but admitting the truth would be far too embarrassing. Nobody could know about him gushing over Emil Nekola. For the sake of his leftover dignity, _nobody_.

“It had to go,” Michele mutters.

“You know you could have just thrown it away, right?”

Michele shakes his head. “Not good enough.”

Why risk throwing it away and having someone stumble across it and read everything? Fire leaves no evidence behind, or at least that’s what all the crime TV shows taught him. Wow, this was the closest he’d ever get to getting rid of a dead body. Hopefully…

“We have a shredder in the office,” Mila comments, interrupting Michele’s train of thought.

“Fire is better, fire cleanses.”

Mila nearly doubles over laughing.

“You are _such_ a drama queen, Mickey! Now come on, put that out and let’s enjoy the sunshine.”

She goes to sit on the small bench nearby, a part of the administration’s attempt at creating a green space in the parking lot. The result of months of planning was a few square metres of grass with a bench in the middle, a tiny green island surrounded by concrete. It never got too popular.

Michele pours the water over the fire. With the flames extinguished he takes a good look the pile of carbonised paper and damaged leather and feels a sense of relief.

“That night never happened,” he whispers to himself. “I never wrote anything then.”

“Are you done being a pyro yet?” Mila calls from the bench. She’s put on her sunglasses and she’s waving at him.

Michele winces and quickly gathers the remains of his notebook to throw them in the bin. Then, to appease Mila, he sits next to her, silently hoping she won’t dwell on the event.

“Why aren’t you out for lunch, Mila?”

“Dude, don’t talk to me about lunch, I am _starving_. I was really craving a cheeseburger and fries today. With extra bacon and pickles! Maybe even go all-out and buy a milkshake, why not?”

Michele chuckles. He’s craving a milkshake now too.

“But then I…” Mila clears her throat. Her enthusiastic talk about food tones down, and her tone shifts to a more serious one. “I saw you leave the office with your notebook and the water bottle, and you were walking like a man on a mission. So I knew something was wrong.”

Michele scoffs and looks down at his shoes, a hint of a smile on his face. “That obvious huh?”

“Of course,” Mila chuckles. “And I couldn’t let you do stupid shit on your own.”

Michele looks up at Mila. Hard to believe that he didn’t want her around a few years ago when Sara first introduced her. In all honesty, he had feared the day his sister would bring a lover home. He worried she would love another man more than him, emotionally replacing him. His surprise came when Sara brought home another woman. The selfish part of him was ecstatic because he secured his place as the most important man in Sara’s life. But the insecure part of him worried that he’d still somehow fall second. Only time revealed that his sister didn’t have a ranking of loved ones, so him and Mila could peacefully co-exist in her heart.

There had been tension at first between them. _A lot_ of tension. And they couldn’t be in the same room together without arguing. But a road trip sneakily planned by Sara managed to bring them together. After Michele and Mila yelled at each other for days, friendship somehow blossomed. And Mila referred him for the job at _Iris_. And he became a shoulder for her to cry on when work got tough. And now she was beside him after he burned a notebook in a fit of panic. Michele never had a friendship like that.

“Eh, I’ll get our new intern to go fetch me a sandwich and I’ll eat it at my desk. But time for more pressing matters now. Are you excited about your date?” Mila asks, lightly elbowing Michele in the arm.

“It’s not a date,” he quickly retorts. “It’s just…unfinished business.”

“I’m praying you’ll finish it both naked, because you _really_ need to get laid, Michele,” Mila comments as she pops a piece of gum in her mouth.

“Mila!” Michele nearly yells. He can feel his whole face grow hot.

“I’m just saying!”

Michele covers his face with his hands and ducks his head. “This is all a mess,” he mutters.

“Are you going to tell me what happened between you and local celeb Emil?”

“You know him?” Michele asks, his face still mushed against his palms.

“I work in media, Mickey, of course I do. But I haven’t written about him yet, so there hasn’t been any drama surrounding him.” Mila takes off her sunglasses to wipe them on her top. “But I promise I’ll do some more in-depth research for you.”

Mila’s column handles celebrity news, but without the tacky tabloid elements. Her articles are well-researched, witty, and even thought-provoking at times. Michele admired her work from the start, convinced that nobody else could pull off presenting the scandalous lives of the rich and famous with the cohesiveness of a philosophy essay, while still being entertaining.

The fact that Mila doesn’t have any dirt on Emil intrigues Michele. After all, the guy has been in the spotlight since he was a teenager, how could he not be involved in drama?

“Yeah, I’d appreciate any info,” Michele says, finally meeting Mila’s gaze.

She smiles and gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“I’m not going to interrogate you about whatever you and Emil have going on, but I think you should definitely go out with him tomorrow. Talk a bit, clear the air, _make a friend_.”

Michele scoffs at the last part. Mila sounds just like Sara when she tells him to go out more and meet people. He _does_ meet people. It’s not his fault that most people are annoying as hell.

“How come you’re my babysitter now?” Michele playfully remarks.

Mila smacks him lightly over the arm as a response. A gesture she clearly picked up from Sara because it’s such a Crispino move. “Because Sara is busy being an iron chef, so someone has to make sure you don’t get into too much trouble. And lucky for you, we get to see each other very often.”

“Lucky me,” Michele laughs.

He looks up at the sky. It’s a beautiful shade of blue and there are no clouds in sight. Mila was right, it’s a wonderful day to enjoy the sunshine.

“Hey Mila?” She turns to Michele and takes off her sunglasses. “Thank you.”

She smiles broadly and folds her sunglasses. “Don’t get soft on me now, we have a meeting with the boss at 4pm and I want you to be sharp.”

Mila stands up and dusts off her trousers. Michele sighs and follows her lead. He’s not looking forward to hearing long speeches about productivity. Especially since he doesn’t have something to take notes on anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I think Mickey would be capable of drunk writing R-rated thoughts about his new crush, followed by burning the evidence? Yup. The boy is a true drama queen.
> 
> Also, Michele and Mila are besties because it's a dynamic I've always wanted to explore. The world needs a Mickey & Mila bromance! Maybe I'll write an AU-compliant one-shot someday about how they went from hating each other to being friends (i.e. the road trip mentioned in this chapter) 
> 
> I also want to apologise for potentially butchering descriptions of working at a magazine, it's very far from my field of study/work but this plot bunny had to be brought to life. Feedback is always appreciated, and comments make my day! Stay tuned, lots of fluff coming up!


	3. Roll With It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *arrives a few months late with a cup of tea and 4.5K of fluff*

Michele is angry with himself. The whole Emil _incident_ had cost him his article. It should have been such a simple thing. He suggested to Paul, _Iris’_ editor-in-chief and founder, an interview with Emil Nekola from a different angle to what previous publications had done. It was supposed to be a friendly chat exploring his past and all the experiences that helped shape his growth. It was supposed to be less about Emil’s sensational feats and focused more on his motivations and psyche. Paul loved the idea of presenting a completely new side of Emil Nekola. He loved it so much that he agreed to consider letting Michele switch to a new column after publishing the article.

And then Michele fucked it all up by being an irresponsible drinker. Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_ It would have been the perfect opportunity for an upgrade, but nothing ever came easy to him so why should this? _Of course_ it would have to be complicated!

So Michele had to talk to Paul and ask for an extension on the Emil story. He used his perfectionism as an excuse, stating that polishing the article and adding a few more facts and quotes would bring it to journalistic excellence. Paul gave him a strange look, seeming unconvinced, but ultimately agreed to give him a few more days. Luckily, Michele had a few pre-written articles to publish in the meantime.

Michele mentally replays the conversation with Paul as he approaches the restaurant. It’s an act of generosity that he needs to take advantage of. He can still deliver a brilliant story, all he has to do is start from scratch. So having breakfast with Emil might actually prove to be his lifeline. He can informally interview him and then write his article. Easy!

Michele looks at his watch. He should be right on time. He hopes the wind hasn’t messed up his hair. But why should it matter anyway? It’s not like it’s a date or anything, just business. Standard interview, only in a different setting. No big deal at all. But he does check his reflection in a shop window just in case.

Emil is standing in front of the restaurant with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, slowly shifting his weight from one foot to another. Michele takes a deep breath. He can do this. Surely he won’t mess up a second attempt at an interview, right?

He tries to mentally revise the questions he prepared in advance, but he gets distracted by the change in Emil’s expression. As soon as they make eye contact, Emil’s face lights up and a bright smile appears on his face. Michele can’t understand how someone can be so happy at the start of the day.

“Morning!” Emil chirps.

“Hi, Emil,” Michele replies.

He can’t mimic the enthusiasm, he hasn’t had his morning coffee yet. Is Emil on a constant stream of espresso or something?

“Ready for the best pancakes you’ve ever tasted in your life?”

Michele raises an eyebrow.

“That’s quite a bold statement there. Surely there are other places with even better pancakes.”

Quit the cynicism, Michele, you’re supposed to keep this guy happy and write an amazing article, _remember_?

“But I’ll take your word for it,” Michele quickly adds.

“Good choice,” Emil laughs. “I promise you won’t be disappointed by this.”

_I should hope so._

Emil gestures towards the entrance. “Shall we?”

Michele nods and follows Emil inside the restaurant. It’s a small and cosy place, with a very local feel to it. People are happily eating pancakes and chatting over coffee, while upbeat jazz plays in the background. Michele appreciates the fact that it’s not a hipster place where they deconstruct every dish and only play edgy covers of Britpop.

They pick the table in the corner. As he sits down Michele realises he feels...strange. There’s an imperceptible shake of his hand when he reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a pen and a notebook. Is he nervous? He’s nervous. But why is he nervous? Emil isn’t even the biggest celebrity he’s ever interviewed.

_But he’s the one celebrity you shared a bed with…_

Michele shakes that thought off. He need to be professional, calm, focused, and shit! Emil’s talking and he hasn’t been paying attention to him.

“…like this place.”

“I’m sorry, I think I zoned out,” Michele awkwardly apologises. “I haven’t had my morning my coffee yet, so my brain must still be asleep.”

Emil offers him a good-natured smile and passes him a menu. “Then we’d better get you some coffee, Mick- Michele.”

And there it is again. Emil’s struggle to call him by his full name. Instead of getting annoyed, Michele figures it might just be easier to deal with it. No harm in having someone who’s not his friend call him Mickey, right?

“You can just say it,” Michele mutters.

“Say what?” Emil asks puzzled.

“Mickey. You can call me Mickey,” he clarifies, waving his hand dismissively while jotting down the date in his notebook. “You seem to be inclined to use it anyway, so just do it.”

The look on Emil’s face can be comparable to that of a child on Christmas morning. He doesn’t say anything, but his joy is crystal clear. And Michele is secretly glad he can make someone happy with such a small gesture.

“Shall we begin?” Michele asks as he underlines the date in the notebook.

“Don’t you want to order food first?”

Michele puts the pen down. Food. Right. They’re having breakfast. He may have briefly forgotten about that. Emil gently waves the menu in front of him.

“Good plan,” he says as he closes the notebook and grabs the menu. As he scans the first few pages. Michele’s already at a loss. He’s used to savoury breakfasts, not pancakes that seem to advertise diabetes. He’d better not say it out loud though, that would be rude.

“God, how do people not get diabetes from these?”

Shit, he said it out loud. Goddammit, Michele.

Thankfully, Emil chuckles at the comment.

“Pretty sure nobody did, otherwise there would be more bad reviews on yelp.”

And Michele smiles. He doesn’t know if it’s because he found the remark mildly amusing or because he’s very relieved he didn’t blew the interview with his cynicism.

Emil’s gaze moves from Michele to the notebook on the table. Emil’s brow furrows.

“That’s not your usual notebook,” he remarks.

Michele feels his face burn. _Don’t look guilty dammit._ He holds the menu up between him and Emil like a barrier.

“It got…damaged.”

“Oh no!” Emil exclaims, and when Michele glances above the menu he sees him look genuinely sad about it. “I’m sorry, I know it was your favourite.”

“Yeah well, nothing lasts forever,” Michele replies dryly. “Ready to order?”

“Oh man, everything looks delicious, it’s a tough choice. I tried the triple chocolate pancakes last time and they were _incredible_!”

Michele entertains the idea for a moment, but he knows he’s too sensible to even consider actually ordering triple chocolate pancakes. He settles for the chocolate chip ones with dark chocolate syrup, because he’s craving chocolate. He hopes he won’t get a sugar rush while working though. Because this is _work_ , he has to remember it.

Emil goes through the whole menu, with an exclamation for every entry. During this time Michele tilts his head and looks at him. He can’t understand how so much enthusiasm can be contained within one person. He wonders if Emil ever gets bad days, if he’s every grumpy or sad. Or angry? Michele can’t picture Emil getting angry. Emil is sunshine, the kind that shines even through grey clouds.

“I think I’ll get the chocolate, peanut butter, and banana combo,” Emil finally decides.

“No death by chocolate?”

“Not today,” Emil laughs. “Also you can’t deny that would be the best way to go.”

“True,” Michele replies while signalling to the waitress that they’re ready to order.

 

“How did you decide to write for _Iris_?”

Michele frowns and puts down his coffee cup.

“I’m not the one getting interviewed here,” he comments.

Emil blows a raspberry in response.

“But interviews are boooring,” he says. “I prefer conversations. That way both people find out more about each other and it feels less like being interrogated.”

Michele rolls his eyes. He’s a journalist, interviewing is what he does for a living. He’d much rather listen to people talk for hours and filter through their words rather than talk about himself. There are so many things he’d like to change about his past, and telling his life story does nothing but remind him of all those. He drinks more of his coffee and clears his throat. Some wine would have probably made this easier.

What’s he supposed to say? That he was having a rough patch in his career in which rejections were piling up and _Iris_ was the light at the end of his tunnel? That he was about to lose hope during job applications, when Mila suddenly offered to put in a good word for him with Paul? That he was never truly happy with his column and always aimed for something better? That he wanted something better while secretly believing he wasn’t worthy of it?

No, that was all too heavy for breakfast. And too personal. So he aimed for something more basic.

“I liked the style, since it’s a blend between a newspaper and a lifestyle magazine. And I was drawn by the name as well,” Michele admits with a small smile, before having a forkful of pancake.

“How so?”

Michele wipes the syrup from around his mouth with a napkin.

“Well Iris is the messenger-goddess of rainbows in Greek mythology,” he explains. “So I thought it was clever to name a news source after her, especially considering that the themes covered in the magazine are so diverse that they can be likened to a rainbow.”

Emil gazes at him in admiration, and Michele almost feels self-conscious. Why does Emil keep looking at him as if he’s the most fascinating person in the world? He must be surrounded by such dull people in his day-to-day life.

“Speaking of jobs, did you ever have another dream job in mind?” Michele asks as he starts a new page on his notebook.

Emil stares into the distance pouting, probably digging through childhood memories.

“Hmm, it’s a tough one,” he admits, tapping a finger against his chin. “I remember really wanting to be a hockey player when I was younger. I used to play a lot when I was in school. But one time I accidentally sent the puck flying straight into a friend’s mouth. Two of his teeth came off, there was blood everywhere, and I felt _horrible!_ ”

Michele tries to supress a chuckle with the back of his hand. Emil describes the scene in vivid details, his hands basically flailing.

“There was blood on the ice, mothers screaming on the sidelines, panic, the guy was trying to say something but the missing teeth weren’t helping him articulate properly…Mickey, are you laughing? It’s not funny, it was traumatising!”

But even with his serious tone, Emil still has a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, probably from seeing Michele struggling not to burst out laughing.

“It is quite funny,” Michele says between chuckles.

“Okay, maybe it’s a _little_ funny. He quickly forgave me and got his teeth replaced, but I never returned to hockey practice after that.”

Michele nods and scribbles something. “So guilt overcame passion?”

Emil shrugs and takes another bite of his pancakes. “I don’t think I liked the sport that much,” he admits with his mouth half-full. “Maybe I just loved being on the ice.”

Michele can’t help but smile widely.

“Same here, I was tempted by professional figure skating at some point.”

Emil gasps and slaps his cheeks. It reminds Michele of the _Home alone_ poster, except Emil’s expression is one of awe and he’s definitely cuter than the kid who starred in the film. Wait, did he just think Emil’s cute? No, didn’t happen.

“You’d look so beautiful figure skating!” Emil murmurs, cheeks squished.

Michele can _feel_ the red staining his cheeks. Emil just called him beautiful. Did that just happen? That definitely happened. What now? Does he say thanks, does he brush it off? This isn’t a regular occurrence, what should he do?

He settles for intelligible mumbling while downing the rest of his coffee. Emil will hopefully accept that as a legitimate reply.

“So how are you pancakes?” Michele quickly asks.

Change of subject. Good job.

“They’re delicious! I think the triple chocolate ones are still my favourite, but these are a close second.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. Maybe I’ll try them someday.”

Before anything else is said, Emil shoves a forkful of his pancakes in front of Michele’s face.

“What the -?”

“Try them now!” Emil encourages. “Someday often means never, and there’s no better time like the present.”

Michele looks at the fork, then at Emil, then back the fork. He gives in and eats the piece of pancake.

“You nearly stabbed me in the eye with that!” Michele accuses after he finishes chewing.

“Mickey, don’t be ridiculous, it wasn’t even close to your eyes. I’m good at approximating distances, it’s what keeps me alive in this business.”

Emil goes back to eating his pancakes, and Michele just stares at him. Mainly he focuses on Emil’s mouth, and snippets of _that_ night return to him.

Michele shuts his eyes to banish the mental images. Now is not the time, brain. He takes a deep breath. But Emil notices his unease and puts down the cutlery.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah I’m fine,” Michele waves his hand dismissively. “How about we talk about your favourite and least favourite parts of your career next?”

 

Breakfast goes pretty well. Michele fills nearly a quarter of his new notebook with notes, and the combination of sweet pancakes and coffee is something he could probably get used to having as a once-in-a-while treat. When the waitress comes over for the fifth time to politely ask them if they would like anything else, they take it as a cue that it’s time to leave.

Michele knows that he should go home, make some strong coffee, open his laptop, and type out the entire interview to get his article done already. But even with the information he got from breakfast, it doesn’t feel _enough_ for a breakthrough piece. After all, his ideal career change depends on this one article.

“Actually,” Michele says tentatively. “I’d have a few more questions for you. If you have time, of course.”

Emil’s face goes from sheer surprise to pure joy in a matter of seconds. And Michele thinks that smile could probably light up a small village isolated in the mountains.

“Of course!” Emil exclaims. “Where would you like to go?”

“Uhmm, coffee?” Michele asks.

That’s a safe suggestion, everybody likes coffee.

“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of coffee…” Emil smiles sheepishly as he rubs the back of his neck.

Michele stares at him in horror. Who doesn’t like coffee?? Is he an alien?!

“I don’t understand,” Michele deadpans. “You _don’t like coffee_? At all?”

Emil shakes his head.

“How do you function?!”

“I don’t know, I just never needed caffeine fixes. I tried coffee a few times, and I like some types of iced coffee, but I’m generally not a fan of the bitter taste.”

Michele clicks his tongue and throws his hands up. “You’re unreal!”

“But I was pretty sure I was real before now...Am I an android that’s becoming self-aware?” Emil asks in mock-horror.

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

Emil replies with a chuckle. Michele rolls his eyes.

“So if you don’t drink coffee, what do you drink?”

“Ah, milkshakes! We should get milkshakes now!” Emil shouts enthusiastically.  

“Shh, okay, keep it down!” Michele looks around in embarrassment and hopes nobody is judging him and the giant five year-old next to him.

“Sorry! I just _really_ love milkshakes.”

Michele scoffs.

“Of course you don’t need caffeine fixes, you’re probably on a perpetual sugar rush.”

“Not the worst way to live my life,” Emil replies with a shrug. “So can we go for milkshakes?”

“Fine, let’s go for milkshakes,” Michele grumbles.

Despite the grumpy façade he’s actually happy. He’s finally going to get the milkshake he’s been craving.

 

The place is a replica of a vintage American diner. There are a few spaces at the bar on high stools, and some free booths. Some ‘50s tunes are being played on a jukebox in the corner, and the whole retro vibe is well-recreated. From the waitress uniforms to the floor tiles and colour scheme, Michele appreciates the attention to details.

“The milkshakes are their specialty,” Emil explains, “but we should definitely come back and try their burgers. They do some amazing things with the pickles!”

“Noted,” Michele says, smiling as he picks up a menu.

Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind having burgers with Emil one day.

The process of choosing is nearly as long as it was for the pancakes. Michele realises Emil is not the most efficient when it comes to decision-making. Michele can’t relate, he’s the type who immediately knows exactly what the wants. Emil picks the oreo milkshake and Michele chooses the coffee-flavoured one.

“Didn’t you already have coffee today?” Emil asks.

“It’s not a proper work day unless I have about five cups,” Michele replies while still flicking through the menu.

“Surely that’s not healthy?”

“Neither is the amount of sugar you consume every day.”

“Okay, touché.”

 

“So how do your parents feel about the whole daredevil thing?”

Emil is focused on balancing an oreo biscuit on his straw. His forehead is creased from the concentration and the tip of his tongue is poking out. Michele clears his throat loudly to get his attention. The oreo plops into the milkshake and Emil raises his head looking disoriented.

“Huh?”

Michele rolls his eyes. “I asked how your parents feel about you doing dangerous things for charity.”

“Oh right, sorry. Well, my mother is the one who worries the most, but both her and my dad trust me not to put my life in danger.” Emil pauses to drink from his shake. “They’re very supportive though, and I appreciate them for that.”

“Did they ever want you to have an alternative career?” Michele asks while scribbling in his notebook.

“My dad kind of wanted me to fulfil my dream of being a professional hockey player, but I already told you how that turned out…”

Michele hums and smiles to himself, not looking up from his notebook. “Indeed you have. But surely they’re proud of you for your strong involvement in charity work.”

“Yeah, they are. I even let them pick a few of the organisations I raise money for.”

“That’s sweet.”

He wants to pull on this family thread. Hopefully it won’t backfire into Emil thinking he’s too nosy.

“Are you the only child?”

“Yes. So you can imagine why my parents are so overprotective of me.”

Michele hums and makes a note of it.

“You don’t seem like a stereotypical only child,” Michele adds.

Emil cocks an eyebrow and licks the straw. Michele struggles not to be distracted by the gesture. He fails.

“And what’s the stereotype?” Emil casually asks, bringing him back to reality.

“Oh uhm, you know, spoiled and self-centred.”

“That’s definitely a lie,” Emil laughs.

“Well, stereotypes are notorious for not being always true…” Michele replies as he sips from his milkshake. It tastes like someone put ice cream into strong coffee. He quite likes it.

“So I take it that means you’re not an only child?” Emil asks before he starts drinking his milkshake straight from the glass.

“I have a twin sister,” Michele replies. “And she is honestly the most incredible person. She’s very intelligent, kind, ambitious, beautiful, and…perfect!”

Praising Sara comes naturally to Michele, but he doesn’t want to overdo it, especially when he’s the one meant to ask the questions. So instead of talking about his twin’s achievements and awesomeness, he takes another sip of the milkshake to think of the next question.

“Wow. Now that confirms that your family has amazing genetics.”

Michele doesn’t understand. What do genetics have to do with this? Is he trying to hit on Sara before even meeting her?

“Shall we carry on with the questions?”

Emil does a little half-smile and nods.

“Was there ever a moment when you wanted to quit?”

Emil stirs his milkshake in contemplation and purses his lips. Michele turns a fresh page on his notebook and patiently waits for a response.

“A few of them, yeah,” Emil finally says. His tone is a lot more serious now. “Once was when I got badly injured in a motorcycle stunt. The set manager overlooked a technical detail and everything went downhill from there. I ended up in the hospital knocked out. My parents were really worried. When I finally opened my eyes, even with all the drugs they gave me, I was in a lot of pain. My folks were in the room, and they hugged me and my mum started crying. She kept telling me to quit and come back home. I seriously considered it. Accidents often prompt big changes, so maybe a big change was what I needed.”

“And yet you didn’t quit,” Michele comments.

“I didn’t. I made a full recovery, took it easy for a few months, promised my mum I’d be more careful next time, and then I got back in the metaphorical saddle.”

“So you didn’t make the big change.”

Emil shakes his head. “I don’t think that was my big change. I think something else had to enter my life and change it forever. Or someone.”

Michele struggles not to scoff. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Don’t know yet. I’m still waiting to see if a certain person is my big change.”

Michele hums to let him know he’s still listening, but he has no idea what Emil’s talking about. And there’s no room for cryptic answers in his interview.

Emil smiles down at his milkshake and bites off half of his oreo. Michele fiddles with his pen, mentally phrasing his follow-up question.

“You seem unconvinced,” Emil says before Michele can launch another question.

“I beg your pardon?” He asks puzzled.

“You seem unconvinced about people being other people’s big changes. Why’s that?”

Michele frowns. This is one of the most serious questions Emil has asked all night. He’s watching him attentively, waiting for an answer. Michele won’t be able to dodge this question the same way he did earlier. So he takes another sip from his shake, eyes not leaving Emil’s.

“I used to believe in something similar. I never called it a ‘big change’, but the concept was similar. I thought people walked into your life for a reason. That every encounter would inspire, intrigue, or leave a mark on you. That people had the power to change your future.” Michele laces his fingers together on the table and shifts a bit in his chair. “But as I met more and more people, I realised that they can all blend together. That most interactions can be considered meaningless. That people walk into your life and then walk away, sometimes without leaving a mark.”

Emil listens without interrupting. He looks fascinated, but there’s also a bit of sadness in his look. Michele can’t stand that, he doesn’t want his answer to be interpreted as a request for pity.

“In short, I realised that the only big changes in my life are the ones I make. I don’t need or want anybody to be my ‘big change’.”

Emil smiles. It’s not a pitiful smile thankfully, but a warm one.

“Guess we’ll have to disagree on this matter,” he says.

Normally Michele handles disagreements intensely, maybe because most people who challenge his views upfront do it aggressively or maliciously. Emil’s disagreement is civil, pleasant. He likes it.

“Yes, I guess we will,” Michele replies with a smile.

 

They talk about Emil’s favourite stunts and his favourite charities. About astronomy and the best series to binge-watch on Netflix. They talk about how today’s society is politically messed up, and debate the most likely way for the world to end. Michele expresses his hatred for top 40 hits, and Emil admits trendy pop songs are his guilty pleasure. Emil talks about his childhood pets, and Michele opens up about the time his cat was hit by a car when he was younger.

The conversation flows smoothly from one topic to another, and they talk for hours until the waitress approaches them to announce that the diner will close soon for a private event. They agree to split the bill, and Michele closes his notebook, realising he hasn’t written down anything discussed in the last few hours. Oh.

“All set?” Emil asks, and there is it again – that sunshine smile. Michele could look at it all day.

“Yes.”

 

Michele stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He’s unsure what to say or do now that they’ve left the diner, so he just quietly walks alongside Emil.

“I had a great time!” Emil says to break the silence.

“Yeah, it was a nice day,” Michele replies.

And it really was. Chatting to Emil required no effort on his behalf. No faking interest, no bored nodding, no head-scratching for witty questions. Everything was so…natural. And it was nice being himself, snappy comments and all. But now what? Is he supposed to thank Emil? Is he supposed to think of a follow-up to today?

“I’d love to do this again sometime soon,” Emil adds.

“Yeah...”

Michele would like that too.

“Well, I should head that way,” Emil says as he cocks his thumb in the opposite direction to Michele’s route home.

“Right. I’m going the other way…So I guess I’ll see you…?”

Soon? Will he see him soon?

“Whenever you want!” Emil replies. “You have my number. Call me anytime!”

Michele waves and the two men part ways. He feels strange, but he can’t pinpoint why. All he knows is that his gut feeling dictates seeing Emil again. But that goes against his initial plan. Today was supposed to be the day he finishes gathering all his interview notes. But plans change, don’t they? So in a very uncharacteristic manner, Michele decides to just roll with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone! Work and life got in the way, but now I'm back to share some Emimike love. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you want to offer me an early Christmas present, comments are the perfect choice <3 
> 
> Next up: a peek into Mickey's amorous past, another cute date, and Sara sends cake


	4. Some Might Say

“So what’s the story?” Mila asks from her usual spot on top of Michele’s desk.

“Argh, there is no story,” Michele mutters frustrated. “And can you get off my desk please? How many times do I have to say?”

“This is so unlike you, Mickey…”

“What? Asking you to get off my desk? I’m pretty sure I do that _every single day,_ ” he snarkily replies.

“No, I meant spending ages on an interview piece. Usually you interview the person and you get the first draft sent to Paul right the next day.”

“That’s because everyone I’ve interviewed so far was so boring that I couldn’t wait to get it all over and done with…”

“Everyone _except_ _Emil_?” Mila smirks.

Michele crosses his arms and leans back into his chair. He knows where this is going and he doesn’t want to entertain Mila with it. But she takes his silence as an answer and her smirk turns into a full-blown Cheshire cat grin.

“Oooh, you actually think someone is interesting. This is new! So are you going to see him again? Is there some potential romance happening here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Michele snaps, feeling a hint of red threatening to stain his cheeks. “Just because I don’t find this guy boring doesn’t mean I’m going to marry him!”

“Marriage seems a bit intense, but you could always _date_ him.”

Michele groans. He hates it when Mila ends up focusing on his love life. Or the lack of it.

“I don’t _date_ ,” he grumbles. “It’s a waste of my time, it’s unnecessarily awkward, and it’s just…no.”

Mila rolls her eyes.

“That’s because you just haven’t found the right guy yet. And having this dumb negative mentality is what prevents you from going out there and finding your guy. No risk no gain, Mickey! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“About as many times as I have to tell you not to sit on my desk?”

Mila quickly flips him off before anyone in the office can notice, then gets off the desk in an overly dramatic manner. Michele shakes his head. How are they friends again? Oh yeah, thanks to Sara.

“Just ask him out, get to know him, and let things naturally progress,” Mila adds. “But don’t be too slow about it, otherwise you might lose him to someone else.”

“I don’t want to date him!” Michele hisses, making sure to keep his voice low enough not to be heard in the office.

“Suuure,” Mila grins as she walks away.

Damn her self-assurance. Michele envies it though, since he doesn’t even know what the hell is going on with his situation. 

 

Michele is reading a bad tabloid-style article published by one of his rivals when his phone starts to vibrate. He puts down his mug of coffee and looks at the screen in confusion. He isn’t expecting any calls today. But then he sees Sara’s name flash on the screen and quickly grabs the phone, taking the call.  

“ _Mickey!”_

Her enthusiasm is contagious, Michele is already grinning.

“Sara! It’s so great to hear your voice again!” Michele happily greets as he makes his way outside the office. He knows everyone eavesdrops while bored at their desks. “How are you?”

“ _I’m happy to hear your voice too, Mickey! Sorry for being unreachable for so long, things at work have been manic.”_

Michele hears the unmistakable frenzy of a busy kitchen as Sara’s background.

“Sounds pretty manic to me,” he replies with a chuckle.

“ _Just a second…”_ Sara moves away from the phone to shout at someone further away. _“Joseph, what the hell are you doing with the parmesan? It’s supposed to go in_ after _, not_ before _, we’re not savages! Put the goddamn cheese down_! _”_

Michele smiles proudly. He loves it when his little sister takes charge of the situation. Reaching the top in a male-dominated field is no easy task, but she brilliantly succeeded and is now a highly respected and well-known chef. His little Sara, on her way to a Michelin star. He couldn’t be prouder.

_“Sorry about that, people forgetting the basics...So how is everything? Mila told me something about a mystery man in your life…”_

Michele sighs. “Of course she did…He’s not a ‘mystery man’. He’s someone I’m interviewing for my breakthrough piece. If Paul likes this, then I can change columns and finally be a travel writer. I’m so close Sara!”

“ _I’m proud of you, Mickey! And I’m especially proud of you for finally hitting the dating scene again!”_

Must everything return to the topic of Michele’s disastrous love life?

“Sara, it’s not…We’re not _dating_ ,” he tries to explain.

They just went for breakfast and milkshakes together. People do that platonically, right?

“ _Do you like him?”_ she asks, and he can feel her grin from the other end.

“He’s a very nice guy,” Michele replies without too much thought. Whenever he talks to Sara there’s always this strange force that compels him to her the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “He’s funny, easy to talk to, interesting, he-”

Woah there, why is he praising Emil so much? He stops himself before Sara gets the wrong idea.

“But I don’t like him _like that_.” He can’t. “I like him as a person. As a human being.”

There’s a moment of silence on the line, and Michele nearly checks to see if the call got disconnected. But then he hears Sara laugh hysterically.

“ _Mickey, did you just quote_ The Room _? Oh my god, you’re in deep.”_

“I’m not!” he exclaims.

It’s pointless though, he knows he can’t get Sara to stop her teasing once she starts. He just sighs loudly into the phone and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Please let’s not dwell on the subject,” he tries.

“ _Mhm whatever you say, loverboy.”_

“Don’t make me hang up on you,” Michele threatens.

“ _We both know you wouldn’t_ ,” Sara replies. “ _Dinner this Friday at mine and Mila’s? I’ll make you carbonara.”_

Michele recognises bribery when he hears it. Still, he smiles and shakes his head. He’s going to get grilled about his love life, but at least he’ll have great food to drown his sorrows in.

“Sure, I’ll be there,” he answers. “Hope everything goes well at the restaurant. Try not to throw pasta at anyone.”

 _“Oh my God, it happened_ one time! _And the pasta was rubbery, I wouldn’t be caught dead serving such an abomination._ ”

Michele chuckles. Just like everyone in their family, Sara considers food to be sacred, so whenever there’s a culinary blasphemy in her kitchen there are consequences.

“Alright, I’ll see you on Friday. Love you!”

“ _Love you too!”_

Michele ends the call, but lingers in the hallway outside the office. Of course there are rumours about him and Emil, he should have seen that coming since the moment Mila saw them together. But they’re just that: rumours. Easily dismissible. Completely false.

Right?

Michele’s mind is wandering again. And it’s focusing on his love life, _of all things!_

Some might say he has a delicate heart that yearns for the right person. Actually, someone did say that –it was Sara when she had a bit too much wine at a family Christmas party. Michele scoffed at that. There is no right person, the whole soulmate spiel is bullshit, and rom-coms lie. The end.

“Stop thinking bitter thoughts,” Mila comments as she walks into the small office kitchen to refill her water bottle.

“How do you even know what I’m thinking?” Michele snappily asks.

“You have the ‘I’m being bitter while thinking about things’ face,” she answers, unfazed by his attitude.

Okay, she knows him a bit too well, should this worry him?

“I’m telling you, you need to get laid,” Mila adds before leaving the room.

Michele huffs angrily. He _does not_ need to get laid. Even though he’s approaching his late twenties now. And he’s never actually been in a relationship. Or had a one-night stand. Well, apart from the Emil thing, but that doesn’t count.

Okay, maybe he needs to get laid. But he can’t just jump into bed with someone, he needs complete trust, loyalty, he needs _feelings_. Shit, he basically needs a relationship. That’s a problem right there.

Michele had tried dating. He honestly did.

Figuring out why he wasn’t attracted to girls was a long and confusing period, which ended with him crying in Sara’s arms on her bedroom floor. She was incredibly supportive of the whole situation. She even encouraged him to start going out with guys, to find out what his type was. When he proved too hesitant about doing so, Sara took matters into her own hands.

Blind dates, accounts on dating apps, Sara tried all the methods she could think of to set Michele up with someone. But despite her best efforts, Michele found most dates to either be boring, or complete and utter disasters. So he eventually stopped going on dates and focused on work instead. And that worked. Most of the time.

Loneliness had a nasty tendency of sneaking up on Michele from time to time. It would catch him at events where everyone would have a plus one, in art galleries where couples would lovingly hold hands and admire paintings, and most often in his own home during sleepless nights.

Loneliness was a bitch. But there was nothing he could really do about it. So he became great at pretending. Pretending that things were great, and that he could live his best life by himself. It worked like a charm. Until now.

Now there’s something gnawing at Michele, and he can’t exactly figure out what it is. It’s like he suddenly wants to _be_ with someone. And it’s a stupid thing to want, because it’s something unachievable, and tricky, and…stupid!

Feelings are stupid, why would he want them?

“I don’t,” Michele mutters to himself.

He puts his mug under the espresso maker and presses a few buttons. He needs to focus on something more productive. Like his article. Yes, everything will be better if he just turns his attention back to writing. 

 

“So if you had any superpower, what would it be?”

“I thought I was the interviewer here,” Michele grumbles as he tries to stab the gnocchi with his wooden fork while walking.

He’s apparently terrible at multitasking, while Emil casually walks by his side eating his pasta and asking him random questions.

“Remember what I said about preferring conversations over interrogations?” Emil asks between bites.

“Excuse you! Did I tie you to a chair and threaten you? No! So it wasn’t an interrogation,” he huffs.

Emil laughs. “I didn’t think you’d be into tying people up but oookay.”

Michele fears he’ll turn as red as the beetroot sauce on Emil’s reginette. Was that an innuendo? That was definitely an innuendo. Why is Emil making innuendos?

Michele coughs and hopes that his blush will disappear soon. This was supposed to be a strategic meeting to gain more material for his article, but Emil managed to threw him off with a simple comment. He needs to get back on top of his game.

Michele drops gnocchi on his shirt. He throws his head back and groans. This day is not going well. Noticing the little accident, Emil smiles benevolently and hands him one of his napkins.

“Maybe we should sit down to eat,” he offers.

“Agreed,” Michele sighs. He’s given up on this whole multitasking affair.

They head to the small park near the farmers’ market and find a free bench to sit on. Michele takes the opportunity to wipe the sauce off his shirt.

“Need any more napkins?” Emil asks.

“No, I should be fine,” Michele mutters as he gives another wipe for good measure.

“So how’s the article going?”

Emil’s nearly finished his pasta, while Michele has a lot of catching up to do. His appetite isn’t that great though, so he just pokes around the takeaway box with his fork.

“It’s going pretty well.” What a lie. “I think I have a good first draft all written up.” Another lie. “The writing process is going very smoothly with this one.” The biggest lie yet.

Truthfully, this article is a nightmare. Not because Michele dreads writing it. He actually enjoys it. It’s one of the most enjoyable things he had to write in months. Which is probably why it’s so complicated to just type it out and get it over and done with. He wants it to be perfect. He wants to get the perfect tone, the perfect combination of facts, the perfect number of anecdotes…He wants a perfect article. And it’s a pain.

Every word he writes he ends up changing a few minutes later. Although editing is supposed to come after the writing ends, he can’t help but _polish_ sentences as he goes along. Or at least, that’s what he was doing a few days ago. Now he’s stuck.

Complete writer’s block. For three days.

And Michele wants to jump off a cliff.

He initially embraced it as something natural. Blocks happen, they’re an inevitable part of being a writer. All he ever needed to overcome them was to step back, get some fresh air, walk a bit, then return with a fresh perspective or idea. But this time his usual remedy failed him. The block was still there. And it was painful. He wrote five different articles about current events in the meantime. With ease! But he couldn’t finish the goddamn piece he wanted.

So Michele adapted his usual cure for writer’s block. He tried finding inspiration for this article by talking to the subject of his piece. Maybe if he found out more about Emil something would eventually trigger a burst of creativity and solve his problem. So he invited Emil for lunch at the farmers’ market near the _Iris_ headquarters. But no burst of inspiration so far.

“Well I’m really looking forward to reading it, Mickey!”

_Me too, if I ever end up finishing it…_

“Oh, and thanks so much for recommending the pasta stall, it was incredible!” Emil exclaimed. “I’m pretty sure I hated beetroot as a child. But I love this sauce, so it’s a miracle!”

Michele smiles and shakes his head. He’s definitely a giant five-year-old. But one with a newly discovered love for vegetables.

“You need to eat healthy food more often. It would definitely be better for you than all the sugar you consume on a daily basis,” Michele remarks.

Emil mock-gasps. “Are you calling me fat?”

Michele’s mind wanders to the morning he saw Emil’s perfect abs and…the rest of him.

“No, definitely not,” he practically squeaks.

If only he could bleach his brain to get rid of all the distracting imagery. Then his life would be much easier.

“I uh…” Michele coughs. “I should probably carry on with the interview.”

“The _conversation_ ”, Emil corrects him.

Michele looks up to meet his gaze. And it’s such a soft look, it’s disarming. It’s like seeing a person who will never be dishonest with you, and never purposely hurt you. It’s something he yearns to see every day.

“I like talking to you, Mickey…I’d rather do that than talk _at_ you.”

Michele feels the strange knot in his stomach again. And this time there’s even something wrong with his heartbeat. He wants to blame it on the pasta. He knows he should say something but he’s at a loss for words. Thankfully, Emil saves him yet again from an awkward pause in conversation.

“Also…you still haven’t told me what your superpower would be,” Emil adds, bringing a smile to Michele’s face.

 

Michele struggles to think of an opening sentence for his new paragraph. To his credit, he managed to write more after his day at the farmers’ market with Emil. But his burst of inspiration ended after half a page, and he found himself back to square one.

He wonders if he should just quit and prostitute himself for Buzzfeed or something.

The intercom buzzes before Michele can think more about an alternative career path. He gets up and heads to the door, wondering if someone will try to sell him something or attempt to convert him to a new religion.  

“Hello?”

“Delivery for a Mickey Crispy,” someone asks dully.  

“It’s _Crispino_ ,” Michele groans, buzzing him in.

When the delivery guy shows up at his door, he unceremoniously hands Michele the package.

“Who is this from?” Michele asks.

“That new Italian restaurant that people are raving about,” he shrugs. “I don’t know man, I don’t get paid to ask questions. Can I leave now?”

“Yeah, go,” Michele sighs and watches the guy rush down the stairs. “Good thing you weren’t expecting a tip…” Michele mutters to himself as he shuts the door behind him with his foot.

He brings the box on his kitchen table. There’s only a notecard with Sara’s curly handwriting on it, saying ‘ _Open me :)’_. Michele scoffs and pulls on the red ribbon that’s neatly wrapping the box. He opens it and nearly chokes on air when he sees what’s inside.

A cake. Triple chocolate cake presumably, since it’s one of Sara’s specialties, with a message written in dark chocolate frosting on top. The message is what got him.

_‘Chocolate is an aphrodisiac, so invite him over and tap that’_

Michele is grateful that Sara isn’t there to witness his mortification first-hand. Sara – always the blunt one. Of course she’d do something like this! He looks at the cake, trying to ignore the text for a second. It’s a large cake, one you’d order for a small office party, there’s no way he’d finish it by himself, especially with all that chocolate in it. _Of course not_. That was Sara’s intention.

Michele sighs heavily and buries his face in his palms. Is he going to do this? Screw it, he’s going to do this. He grabs his phone and scrolls through his contacts. As he places the phone next to his ear, he reaches for a butter knife and starts smoothing out the text on the cake into a thin layer of dark chocolate.

“Um, hi, Emil, it’s me…I uh- I know this might sound weird but…Are you free today by any chance? My sister sent me a giant triple chocolate cake and I need some help eating it all…”

 

“This cake is amazing!” Emil exclaims with his mouth half full. “Your sister is a cake-making genius!”

“I told you she’s brilliant,” Michele replies proudly.

He’s leaning against the counter of his kitchen trying to neatly scoop up the frosting from his plate. Emil is sitting at the table already on his second serving of cake.

“You told me she’s a brilliant chef, but a brilliant baker as well? Now that’s just unfair! I burn everything I put in an oven.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to exchange secrets of the trade with you.”

She already made him cake, and Sara only does that with people she really likes. Michele finds it odd that she’s never met Emil and yet she’s already a fan. The cake _and_ the message…That’s a sure sign that Emil has her blessing.

Emil wolfs down the cake, then gets up to bring the empty plate to the counter.

“You have no idea how happy this cake made me. Thanks for inviting me along, Mickey!”

“No worries, I couldn’t have finished it all by myself without going into a sugar coma, so thanks for coming to help,” Michele shrugs.

And as he looks up from his plate he spots it. The chocolate frosting smudged around his mouth. If it were anybody else he’d probably scoff, call them a messy eater, and throw them a napkin. But with Emil, the sight is too endearing for him to do that.

Without thinking too much, Michele puts down his plate and grabs a napkin from the pile next to him.

“Emil, come here,” he beckons to him.

Emil’s eyebrow furrows, but he obeys without a word. After only a couple of steps he’s standing in front of Michele, who gently wipes the chocolate off his face.

“You’re such a messy eater,” Michele murmurs, but there’s no malice in his remark. It’s softness that matches the tenderness of his gesture.

“Guilty as charged,” Emil replies, and Michele can feel him smile under his touch. “Thank you.”

Michele’s hand slowly drops and his eyes meet Emil’s. Emil stares at him, with the same soft gaze he witnessed after the farmers’ market. It’s the most beautiful look in the world.

He notices how close he is to Emil. They’re basically inches apart. He could easily shift a bit forward and close the gap. He could easily press his lips against Emil. He could –

Michele jumps at the sound of some unknown pop song blasting in his kitchen. Emil takes a step back, calmer than him but still taken by surprise.

“Sorry, that’s for me,” he mumbles as he digs through his pockets for the phone. “Do you mind if I-?”

Michele just waves dismissively, and turns around to plant his palms on the counter. His head is spinning. Was he actually about to kiss Emil? What the hell is happening to him? He reaches to grab a half-empty glass of water while Emil talks on the phone. He downs it in a few gulps. Maybe now he’ll be able to think. But Emil cuts the call short and addresses him again.

“I’m so sorry, Mickey, I completely forgot I have a promo shoot for next month’s motorcycle race,” Emil says as he pockets his phone. “I…”

“Ah, it’s fine,” Michele says as he moves away from the counter. He needs to breathe for a second and collect his thoughts. “I don’t want you to be late for anything.”

Emil smiles, but Michele has spent enough time with him to figure out it’s not a genuine smile. He looks like a kid who had his play time cut short.  

“Right, then I should probably go. Thanks a lot for the cake! It was delicious, please send my compliments to Sara!”

Michele gives a small smile and nods, “Will do.”

“Oh, and I hope writing is going well,” Emil adds while putting on his jacket.

Shit, the article. Still a work in progress. Why can’t he just finish the damned thing?

He walks Emil to the front door and tries to ignore the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He just ate cake, but something inside him feels hollow.

“So I’ll see you soon?” Emil asks as he crosses the threshold.

“Yeah. Soon,” Michele replies automatically as he holds the door open.

His head is still spinning and he thinks he might be sick soon. Emil senses something’s not right, so he doesn’t insist on a hug this time. He just gives him a small smile and a wave.

“Take care, Mickey, okay?”

“You too. You’re the one doing dangerous stuff,” he adds with a weak smile.

That manages to make Emil chuckle. “I’ll be careful for you. See ya later!”

Michele looks at him go down the stairs – two steps at a time, as always.

He shuts the door, then leans on it. The feeling of disappointment is lingering, and as much as he tries to deny it, he knows it’s because of Emil. Oh shit, he has _feelings_ now. He thumps his head against the door. He’s so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos! I may be slow with updates, but I'm definitely not abandoning this story.
> 
> Now...who's excited for a flashback chapter next?


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